


A Dubious Honour

by CommanderTabbyCat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Apologies, Bisexual!Sally, Confessions, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Of an odd grudging sort, Pining, Sally is something of an atoner, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderTabbyCat/pseuds/CommanderTabbyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a few days after the wedding when the last person Sherlock expects to see shows up on his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dubious Honour

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a tumblr post with essentially the same premise, which I then lost. If anyone could point me to a likely one, I'll happily give it credit.
> 
> Comments are always welcome and very much appreciated!

It’s been a few days since the wedding when Sherlock is lying on the sofa, contemplating the ceiling.  
He checks the time on his phone. 15:42. Considers lighting up for the fourth time today. (He’s started smoking again. What’s the point in not, really? There’s no one around to motivate him into stopping anymore.)  
He’s in a slump after the wedding. Somehow, being able to throw himself into arranging the event had served rather effectively as a distraction from that sick, hollow feeling that the fact of John getting married was inducing in him. Wedding planning as a distraction from the actual wedding; who would have thought.  
Now, though…  
Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister. Even her chatter and occasional attempts to reach out in the form of a Cluedo evening (he’s accepted the fact that the victim can’t have done it, but he can still guess the outcome every time) functioned as a means of diverting attention, if only for a short time.  
It pains him to admit it, but he really wouldn’t object to company right now.  
He’s uncharacteristically startled by the sound of the doorbell.  
Not a client. Not John, either: he would have just walked in without preamble. (Sherlock is absurdly pleased by this: the idea that John still considers 221B his home to the point that he can do this. It’s uncharacteristic of him, and for a moment the knowledge of this makes Sherlock feel warm, if only briefly.)  
Another ring forces him to haul himself up from the sofa (out of curiosity, if nothing else.) He throws on a jacket and heads downstairs to investigate. 

Sally stands on the doorstep, one hand rammed deep into her coat pocket, the other hovering over the doorbell. She does not want to be here.  
She really, really does not want to be here.  
She’s barely spoken to Holmes since… since what happened. She’d managed to hold onto her job, by some miracle. Got an earful from Greg after it all came to light, which was understandable enough. He was grieving, angry, needed someone to unleash it on.  
She was, too. That had been unexpected, in a way.  
She’d hated him, almost from the moment he first showed up at a crime scene. She’d worked so hard to get where she was, and then this arrogant prick showed up without any training or qualifications, with his nasty remarks and tasteless displays of glee at another grisly murder, and was allowed to poke around the scene and make his bloody deductions and generally act like an arsehole. And there had always been that nagging feeling, that what if. What if once, just once, it all went wrong. What if we can’t trust him. What if…  
But even so, yes, she’d felt terrible after that fall.  
She hadn’t wanted Sherlock to die. Wanted him to fuck off, granted, but not to die. She’d never intended for any of that to happen.  
So when he had come back she’d been furious, primarily, but… yes, relieved too. 

Not for the first time today, she wonders exactly what the fuck she’s _doing ___here. Come to make some sort of reparation for the role she played in his downfall? Maybe, although she won’t grovel; she’s promised herself that much. But there’s something else, too, much as she hates to admit it to herself.  
She hopes Sherlock’s landlady doesn’t answer the door. Sally can’t imagine she’d be welcome. 

The last time she saw John Watson, he was with his fiancee. (Well, his wife now, Sally supposes.) She was blonde and cheerful and friendly and there was something off about her.  
She can’t say what, exactly. Just a… a feeling. A bad vibe. She’s a little too nice, too perky, too much of a match for John. Tailored, almost.  
But Sally had acted on a bad vibe once, and had been wrong. Dead wrong, and it had cost her dearly. Cost all of them. She won’t make that same mistake again. It’s not as if anyone would take her seriously anyway; she remembers that talk with her boss.  
_Look, you’re a good officer. You don’t take any chances, and I admire that. I do. But you can’t just go around making allegations about someone like that. Just… fucking hell,, I don’t know. Just be more careful next time._  
But even that’s not why she’s here. 

No one answers the first ring. It takes a lot of willpower to ring the doorbell a second time instead of walking away. 

Sherlock sighs heavily when he eventually opens the door. He looks terrible; exhausted and washed-out. Red around the eyes. He’s lost far too much weight, she can see that.  
‘Oh, what now? Come to arrest me again?’  
‘Nope.’  
‘Another drugs bust, then? What does Gary want from me this time?’  
‘Who?’  
‘Lestrade, whatever his name is.’ (Jesus, doesn’t he even know her boss’s name? Weren’t they supposed to be personal friends?)  
‘It’s Greg, and no. He doesn’t know I’m here.’ Sally shrugs awkwardly. ‘Just… came to check up on you.’  
For a second he looks genuinely shocked (she thinks) but rights himself straight away. It’s just a flicker of an expression passing over his features. ‘Check up on me? Why?’  
Good question, really. Very good. Not one she really has much of an answer to.  
She says: ‘Look, I’m as happy as anyone that you’re not being quite so much of a wanker at the crime scenes. But… ‘ She sighs. ‘Look, I know. All right? I know. He’s marrying someone else, and… I thought you might need…. want to… talk. To someone.’  
There’s that look again, less effectively concealed this time. The disconcerting feeling comes over Sally that she’s actually managed to baffle Sherlock Holmes. His lip curls, a small sign of what might be disdain.  
Sally sighs again. ‘You know what, forget it. Sorry to have bothered you.’ She’s about to turn and leave when he stops her. ‘No.’  
‘What?’  
He looks at a loss for a second, then opens the door wider. ‘You might as well come in. Since you bothered to come all this way. I believe it’s customary in these events to at least offer someone a drink.’  
He turns on his heel and starts back up the stairs, evidently expecting her to follow. After some internal debating, she does.  
His flat doesn’t look that different from when she was last in there, two years ago. There’s something a little off about the living room, something she can’t quite put her finger on.  
Sherlock sweeps into the room, barely giving her a second glance. ‘There’s tea and coffee, and some scotch in the kitchen. Help yourself, but get me one too if you’re going.’  
So, that was that. Naturally the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t deign to make the drinks himself. Still, Sally concedes, a whisky sounds good right now. Possibly not the best idea, but it would certainly make this meeting a little more palatable. She heads to the kitchen and rummages in the freezer for some ice.  
When she returns with two tumblers, Sherlock is lying prostrate on the sofa, looking for all the world as if he’s forgotten there’s another person present. She clears her throat a little awkwardly, and he gestures without looking up towards the black leather armchair.  
...Oh. That’s it… didn’t there used to be another armchair by the fireplace?  
Sally sits down, taking a sip from her glass.  
She’s not entirely sure how the meeting was supposed to proceed after this, so she simply gets to the point.  
‘I’m sorry. About what happened.’  
‘Which particular event are you referring to?’  
‘You, getting arrested. What happened with… with Moriarty. That.’  
She sighs. ‘I was suspicious of you from the off, and that was wrong. I should have paid more attention.’ She’d been furious with herself for that. If she had only looked into it more none of the case really added up. She’d been played, had her suspicions taken advantage of, and she’d fallen for it just like Moriarty had obviously intended her to. Alongside genuine regret, she still prickles with anger, fury that she’d been such a pawn. 

Sherlock shrugs, an impressive feat from his position. ‘No need. You were only doing your job.’  
This hadn’t really been the anticipated response. ‘What?’  
Sherlock sits up suddenly, unexpectedly fast in contrast to his torpor. He gestures towards the other glass she’s left on the table. ‘Is this mine?’  
‘Er… yes...’  
He picks it up and takes a long swig before responding. ‘Sally, much as it pains me to say it, I’m fully aware that one doesn’t get to be in your position without a degree of suspicion. The fact that your mistrust was, in this case, directed towards the wrong person is unfortunate, but… somewhat understandable. Your dislike of me is not unfounded.’  
‘Oh.’  
‘Besides, Moriarty’s whole plan hinged around being able to deceive everyone for just long enough to have the desired effect. He was very… adept.’ Sherlock grimaces.  
‘No arguing with that.’ Sally takes a long drink of her own. However much she might have ever disliked Sherlock Holmes, it’s nothing compared to her feelings towards Jim Moriarty.  
_Your dislike of me is not unfounded. ___Jesus. She’s not sure how to respond to that. ‘Well, thank you, I suppose.’  
‘So, have you just come here to apologise? I seem to recall that there was another matter you wished to bring up.’  
This last sentence is delivered with a considerable degree of scorn, but Sally doesn’t miss the twinge of pain in his features.  
‘Well… are you?’  
‘Am I what?’  
‘In love with him.’  
Sherlock sighs heavily, contriving to indicate that he finds this whole conversation incredibly tedious and pointless. He picks up his whisky and takes another sip, fingering the glass absent-mindedly. And then his expression changes. Becomes softer. Defeated, almost.  
‘Yes,’ he eventually tells the ceiling. ‘Yes, I am. All right? Congratulations, sergeant. Another one solved. Well done.’  
‘I’m not here to gloat.’  
‘You’re not? Wonderful. So what are you here for, exactly?’  
‘Just… I don’t know. To see if you’re all right. Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m a big fan of yours. But I’ve… well, I’ve been there.’  
With one of her uni friends, to be more specific. Jenny, her name was. Sally had attended her wedding just after making it to sergeant.  
That was when she’d got involved with Philip. Thought that taking a break from women would take her mind off it.  
She’d known he was married, of course, although he’d told her it was on the rocks, right on the verge of ending. She’s not even sure whether she’d believed him at the time, but back then it hadn’t mattered a great deal. It wasn’t as if she’d been looking for commitment. She’d just wanted a distraction.  
And then Sherlock fucking Holmes had to show up and tell the whole of Scotland Yard what they’d been up to. She’d ended it after that.  
The memory rankles, and for a moment she question once again exactly why she bothered to come here. Regardless, she presses on. ‘I’ve been there, and… I don’t know, if you wanted to talk about it… I didn’t know if there was anyone else you could… talk to.’  
‘Oh.’ A hint of mocking surprise. ‘Is this what people normally do, then? Talk about it?’  
‘Oh yes, sorry, I forgot you were on a higher plane to the rest of us.’ Sally drains her glass and sets it on the table. ‘But, yeah. Even so.’  
Sherlock eyes the empty tumbler. ‘Get yourself another one. Bring the bottle, you might as well.’  
Sally hesitates. Her mind is already feeling a little foggy around the edges; this is definitely a bad idea. And it’s good scotch. ‘This tastes expensive.’  
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. ‘Present from a client. It’s nothing. Go ahead.’  
Sally heads to the kitchen. Fuck it.  
Sherlock holds out his own glass for a top-up when she comes back. She hesitates, for a second: the man’s clearly not in the best emotional state; she probably shouldn’t be encouraging him to drown his sorrows. But then again, he’s a grown man. It’s not her job to take care of him. She tops it up for him. Not too much.  
They’re both silent for a minute. Then Sherlock speaks: ‘You have the dubious honour of being the first person I’ve openly admitted that to. Although I’m sure most people have formed their own conclusions’  
‘Philip got it wrong.’  
‘Yes, well. I rather think Philip is looking to beat a track record for getting things wrong.’  
She laughs, surprising herself. It’s not even that funny; just his standard snark. But Anderson _had ___screwed her over, surely she was allowed a bit of a laugh at his expense.  
‘Did you ever think about telling him? John?’  
Sherlock scoffs. ‘Please. You’ve heard how vehement he is about our relationship status. Or lack thereof. I can’t imagine a confession of that sort would go down well.’  
‘It might be different, you know. If you told him.’  
‘He’s _married ___, Sally. I realise that given your history you may be unaware of this, but declaring romantic feelings for someone who’s already married to someone else is generally frowned upon in our society.’  
Sally sets her glass on the table, folds her arms, and fixes Sherlock with a steely look. Several seconds pass.  
‘I apologise,’ Sherlock eventually mutters, not meeting her gaze. ‘That was… unwarranted.’  
‘Yes, it was,’ she snaps. ‘And none of your business. Anyway, I meant before.’  
Sherlock takes another drink, and when he looks at her again… she could swear he’s tearing up, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light.  
‘I couldn’t risk it, Sally. I needed him, in whatever capacity I could have him. I couldn’t lose him, for that.’  
Sally nods. This is familiar, too: the urge to confess, to lose the burden of keeping it a secret, weighed against the risk of losing a good friend. The way that so much of your identity ended up feeling as if it were wrapped up in another person. And Sherlock, who she can’t imagine having many friends in the first place…  
‘I get it.’  
Sherlock looks again at the ceiling, and some time passes before he speaks. ‘I miss him. Constantly. He’s always in my thoughts, somehow. I’ll distract myself with something and stop focusing on him for a while, and then my thoughts will come back to him and it turns out he’s never left. He’s always… there, somehow. Is that normal?’  
Sally sighs. ‘Sounds familiar, anyway.’ A thought occurs. ‘When did you last eat?’  
‘What day is it?’  
‘You’ve got to eat something.’  
Another noncommittal look. 

‘Look,’ Sally begins, ‘He loves you.’  
Sherlock raises one eyebrow, but says nothing.  
‘Maybe not… I don’t know… in what way, but he does. He loves you.’ _God knows why ___, she would’ve added, once, but not this time. ‘He wouldn’t want you to be… like this.’  
‘John is presently occupied in various activities with his new bride. I highly doubt he’s overly concerned with my emotional state.’  
‘Of course he is. He might be… with someone else now, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost interest in you.’  
‘How would you know?’  
‘I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the way he acts around you. Still does now, never mind about his wife.’  
Sherlock shrugs. ‘He’s impressed by my abilities, that’s all.’  
She shakes her head. ‘No. It’s more than that. Look, do you want me to be honest?’  
‘Go ahead. I can’t imagine I’m the easiest person to maintain diplomacy around.’  
‘No, you’re not!’ She scoffs, not willing to let that ‘frowned upon’ remark slide just yet. ‘You’re a… rude, arrogant _wanker ___. But he follows you to the crime scenes and gushes over you when you do that… thing and then goes off to dinner with you afterwards. Always looks at you like you’re some sort of wizard. I didn’t believe it at first; I thought you must’ve… _paid ___him, or something. But no. That was what it was.’ She shrugs. ‘He loves you.’

Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards, just for a second. Sally sighs. Look, all I’m saying is… he wouldn’t want you to be moping around like this, over him. Have you tried, I don’t know… talking to him? Not about this, just, I don’t know… anything, really. Might make you feel better.’  
Sherlock scoffs. ‘If John doesn’t want me “moping,” that’s something he will simply have to deal with on his own terms.’ He turns suddenly on the sofa, facing her, and his tone changes rather abruptly. ‘It _hurts ___, Sally. I don’t have prior experience with this, not on a personal level. I didn’t imagine it would hurt to this degree. I can’t imagine speaking to him would serve to do anything but aggravate things. Better to let him get on with his life.’

That seems to be that. There’s no point pushing things.  
They talk a little more, the atmosphere becoming gradually less strained.  
It’s strange. She spent years resenting him, and something like that doesn’t just get overturned in one night. But this… this feels like a grace period. In another world, under different circumstances, they might have got on better. Perhaps. If Sherlock had been a bit less of a wanker, certainly.  
The alcohol probably helps, granted.  
But eventually Sally checks the time on her phone; notices the haze of streetlamps beginning to light up outside the window. 

‘All right, then,’ Sally gets up. ‘I should go. Thanks for the scotch.’ She picks her coat up and begins to shrug it on.  
When Sherlock looks up to face her again, she knows she’s not mistaking the threat of tears.  
‘I appreciate your attempts at consolation, Sally. But I don’t think there’s a great deal that can be done right now.’  
‘Maybe not now. Listen, you’ve got my number. If you ever wanted to talk more...’  
He nods, almost imperceptibly. ‘Thank you.’  
Coat on, Sally stands uncomfortably in the living room, wondering what to do next. Sherlock speaks first, cutting off her train of thought.  
‘Sally, what I said before, I meant it. Don’t blame yourself. You were only doing your job.’  
She nods, a little uncertainly. ‘Thanks.’  
Sally hesitates on the threshold for a second, almost about to speak again. _Sherlock, I don’t trust John’s wife. Something’s not right about her ___.  
She almost says it out loud, but decides against it. She has nothing to go on, really. Just a… feeling, and she’s long since learned not to trust that sort of thing.  
Instead she says ‘Well, take care of yourself.’  
He nods. ‘You too.’  
Sally walks out of the door, down the stairs, throws one last lingering glance at the building, and turns on her heel to walk away, into the orange glow of the streetlights. 


End file.
